


a pinch of salt

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (Or at least in like), A dessert that I personally would kill to obtain, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Game, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, And Culinary Ineptitude (Mentioned), Banter, Confusion, Cooking, Culinary Excellence, Decadent Food, Denial of Feelings, Dirk & Jane Friendship, Embedded Images, Fluff, Food Critic, Food Porn, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, I went a bit nuts on the menu design, Idiots in Love, Illustrations, M/M, Meet-Cute, Only tangentially related to Ratatouille, Spite and Snark, chef, meet-chaotic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28021500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: You know what they say, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, a Twitter flame war, an elaborate spite menu, and a whole lot of inept flirting.Entry for the DirkJohn Big Bang 2020.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 16
Kudos: 54
Collections: DirkJohn Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wonderful art by flickerfins (on [ tumblr](https://flickerfins.tumblr.com/) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/flickerfins/?hl=en)). Seriously, it is adorable and all her other art is Amazing with a capital A, and it's been a blast collabing :3

“Jane. Relax. We’re going to cook, and we’re going to cook well,” Dirk says, for what has to be the tenth time in less than five minutes. It does nothing to alleviate his _own_ tension, but that, he can handle. It’s Jane spiralling that he’s worried about, especially since she brought this upon them in the first place. No offense meant.

“Okay, yes, but-,” she is, in fact, fiddling with the hem of her apron, though Dirk can’t parse what the mix of emotions is on her face. Worry, yes, but there’s something else that goes deeper than regular nerves, too.

“He’s a food critic, not a demon. In fact, he’s barely a food critic, he’s a comedian with bad jokes. He doesn’t do the torturing in hell, he’ll be the one tortured there, doomed to eat Satan’s jalfrezi asshole for all eternity. Not that there’s anything wrong with eating ass,” Dirk adds, contemplative. “But eating Satan’s is probably going to be unplea-,”

“Dirk!” Jane cuts him off, first with his name, and then with a firm and floury hand right to his mouth. He’s not quite childish enough to lick her hand, but that’s because he doesn’t want the taste of flour on it. If it was cake batter, it might’ve been a different story.

Depending on the cake, that is. Jane’s got a hand for rich, decadent desserts, and while she’s very good at pastry and breads, she likes making cakes above all else- and it shows in both their menu ad their reputation for having fucking excellent desserts. Not that the food is anything to slouch at, if Dirk has anything to say about it (which he does, since he _makes_ most of it), but the dessert is where it’s at. Especially the chocolate cake, even if Dirk can’t manage more than a couple of bites. It’s decadent enough to crumble the Roman Empire all over again.

“What?” he mumbles against her hand, and he discreetly wipes the flour off his face with his towel when she moves it.

“Stop talking about rimming!”

“Think about making more reasonable requests of me,” he tells her solemnly. “Anyway, it’s not like John fuckin’ Egbert is the expert on food. You’ve heard his jokes. Half of them center around his debilitating fear of cakes and pies, which is bizarre and somewhat unfounded.”

“He’s such a noob,” Vriska agrees with a cackle. She brandishes her knife with some alarming flair. “And he’ll be eating what we cook for him or _else._ ”

“See? That’s the spirit,” Dirk agrees. “Listen to my favorite Serket.”

“Ooooooooh, Strider,” she purrs. “You shouldn’t. I’m almost tempted to take offense, and none of us want _that_ to happen.”

“True. Your sister does kind of set the bar on the ground. How’s ‘favorite sous chef’ instead?” he offers, spinning his knife with equal flair. Who would he be, if he didn’t show off to match her?

“Juggle those and _then_ call me impressed, cherry boy,” she sneers.

“I’ll meet you out back in the Denny’s and we’ll fucking do it. Eight knives?”

“Like there’s any other number to do.”

“Guys-!” Jane’s frustrated voice breaks through your banter. Adieu, sweet normalcy. “His ticket’s coming in now. Okay, just- focus? Please? This is important.”

“Isn’t he your cousin or something, Crocker? He’s like, obligated to kiss your ass and play nice,” Vriska points out. “This feels low stakes. I want to cook for that tall fucker from Ratatouille and make a grown man cry. Give me a _real_ challenge.”

“To be fair, you have made several grown men cry before, just not because of your food. I want to cook for the DILF from Shokugeki no Soma. I wish my clothes flew off my body when I ate really good food,” Dirk muses.

“Keep it in your pants.”

“He’s not obligated to kiss my ass, he’s- here as a favor! For, you know, free advertising. I think it’s going to attract some new clients and I’m the boss, okay?” Jane admonishes them both with a floury finger. Dirk doesn’t think that’s fully accurate, to be quite honest- Fine Thyme is doing, well. Fine. They’re not fully booked every night, but they’re close to it, and they’ve got their regulars And there’s always lines out the door on Saturdays and holidays, and since Jane decided to offer a delivery option, things have been steady. There’s no real financial impetus to obtain a celebrity opinion.

But Jane’s always been kind of an overachiever. She’s got sense, and she’s determined to be the best at what she does. It’d be terrifying, if Dirk wasn’t exactly the same way. Besides, everything she’s tried has worked- from cooking classes (homemade pasta, nice and easy, run by him; pastry, by her; couples, run by Vriska, which is terrifying), to Sunday roasts and various set menus. So no one has any real reason to complain, either. At least not about her business acumen.

Dirk’s complaint is that he thinks John Egbert is kind of a dick, in the distant way that all celebrities are kind of dicks at the very least (Keanu Reeves and Harrison Ford excepted), especially if they were also comedians who kind of started on SNL. Dirk does not like SNL if Kate McKinnon and Melissa McCarthy aren’t on it, and that’s just because he has taste.

John Egbert, he knows a little bit closer to home, in that he’s friends with his brother in a weird way, and Dirk’s seen him around once or twice, registered he was there and making a dumb joke, and promptly left. He doesn’t really like spending time with Dave’s more obnoxious celebrity friends, and while Egbert’s not that bad, it’s still a lot to ask when Dirk isn’t the biggest fan of his comedy. It really is the SNL thing.

This was, naturally, fucking vetoed. Assumig he ever had any say at all- Jane can be a real dictator about her restaurant sometimes. All that ruthless ambition had to go somewhere, he supposes, and it’s either this or the cakes. Privately, he doesn’t think the cakes are the right vehicle for it, and it’s not like she’s regularly cutting things up and setting them on fire like he is, even if it’s a controlled fire since she’d never forgive him for incinerating her restaurant. But his point remains.

“You’re the boss,” he repeats, and makes sure to inject just enough sarcasm into it that he still comes out of the blatant ass-kissing with a modicum of respect from Vriska.

“For now,” Serket adds, and Dirk gives her a casual high-five for that one. “We’ve gotta keep you on your toes, Crocker.”

“It’s nice to know how loyal my kitchen staff is,” Jane says dryly. As if any of them would leave her to work somewhere else. A coup d’etat is, unfortunately, way more likely. Intensity and ambition attracts the same. “But if you two could potentially express that in, oh, I don’t know. Getting the actual order cooked? That would be absolutely lovely.”

“Karkat hasn’t even called it out yet,” Vriska says. Reasonably, which is surprising.

“Yeah, because it’s only now coming in, calm the fuck down, Serket,” Karkat hisses at her, practically ripping the ticket from the printer and squinting at it through his glasses. Dave thinks this is particularly adorable. Dirk has too many memories associating this expression with Karkat screaming at him to really concur. Vantas starts shouting and Dirk is immediately ready to start cooking as fast as he can while still maintaining standards.

“Al-fucking-right. Table for the obnoxious comedian, coming up. App- sausage and tomatoes, so get that fucking started first, then his scallops are the main, no dessert as of fucking yet.”

Well, he can’t argue against starting, now.

So he does, searing up the sausages and making sure the sauce is as rich as it needs to be and fucking perfect. And okay, this is not, personally, his favorite, but he’ll agree that it’s pretty damn good. It works. They’re going to be fine. He doesn’t say it, but he does try to project it right at Jane.

He doesn’t even really have the time to watch the plate go off, just sees Roxy give him a wink and a wave as they cart the plate off once it’s passed Karkat’s gimlet eye. Dude’s dedicated to keeping them going as the other orders start pouring in, the lull between tables shortening to non-existent as the kitchen promptly gets fifty times busier, the usual chaotic dance that Dirk just happens to enjoy. He thrives under pressure, what can he say?

Although this specific kind of pressure is something else; he’s dealt with critics before and he doesn’t much like it, having one person’s opinion suddenly mean so much, especially when he’s not personally invested in said opinion. Professionally, yes. But at least they knew what they were talking about. A celebrity reviewing food? Dirk still isn’t fully sold on the point of it, but again. Jane will do as she will, and he doesn’t need to show his face.

Roxy swings back in with the empty plate for the appetizer, and Jane suddenly materializes right next to them. Karkat swears, violently, although he doesn’t actually know another way to swear.

“Well?” Jane asks, like she has any right to be nervous despite watching this meal get prepared like she’s a hawk and it’s a poor, unfortunate rabbit running out in the open. “What did he say?”

They don’t all pause to hear this, absolutely not. The frying station is very much active, and Dirk stares at the cook there until he gets the fucking point and pays attention to what he’s doing. But Dirk, thankfully, is just keeping half an eye on his pot simmering away. And that’s going to be fine before he has to stir it again in a minute and a half. Roughly- time isn’t his thing so much as it is his brother’s, but Dirk’s got a decent sense for it now.

“Uhm, nothing?” Roxy shrugs, sets the empty plate down. “He got sauce in the ‘stache, though.”

“Gross,” Dirk says, wrinkling his nose. “Facial hair is the worst.”

“Iunno, he makes it look pretty good.” They wink, before sauntering out of the kitchen with their next plate, neatly dodging Jane’s grabby hands and missing her look of frustration.

“Argh- Roxy is just, they- ooh,” she sighs out, shaking her head.

“Eloquent,” Dirk deadpans. Vriska snorts.

“Yeah, Crocker, I feel the same way. Argh, ooh. My inner cavewoman is going fucking feral.”

“You’re always five seconds away from going feral, Serket, we’re past giving a single flying fuck about all that shit. Get started on his next course already, that’s the coquilles, so get fucking going already, and you’d better not let me so much as lay eyes on a rubbery scallop or fucking else the curb is going to be scraping your asshole raw after my foot is done with it. And-,” a pause, not even for breath, but to examine the tickets; Karkat’s still swearing to himself as he does that, “Where’s the main for Table 5, huh? We’ve got other customers, Serket, and they’re just as important as John goddamn Egbert,” Karkat breaks in, at a near shout as always. Well, he can get louder, but the words still startle them both back to awareness. “Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought! Get your useless asses back to your stations- and yes, Crocker, that includes you too, don’t even fucking think about being nosy when you’ve got those parfaits to assemble for Table 16, because fuck knows why but every one of those assholes decided they wanted shitty ice cream and fruit for a fake-ass dessert.”

As per usual, Karkat manages to get everyone back on track- the kitchen is loud, but he’s louder. He doesn’t even let them fixate on the mostly-empty plate that’s brought back from Egbert’s table later, not for more than five seconds. Hell, Dirk’s sure they don’t even get five seconds; the bus boy is the only one who gets any real intimate time with it. Roxy gets their next plate and is promptly shooed out before anyone can get anything out of them, which is both helpful and frustrating.

Dirk loathes waiting to hear what people think. He can deal with cooking, he can deal with snotty customers (which they do get, and he is the fucking epitome of a good sport about it), and he can deal with Jane bouncing off the walls with nerves because she’s also waiting to hear what someone thinks. It’s his own impatience that annoys him. But, grudgingly, he’ll admit that Karkat is doing the right thing, keeping them focused. And more specifically, not letting him fixate. This is what he gets for working with his brother-in-law, he’s got a natural disadvantage on intimidation.

But the night starts to wind down, and soon there’s more dessert orders than mains being put in, as the last tables of the night finish their appetizers and tuck into their mains, and the lingering ones decide to finish up and head home.

“Chocolate cake for Egbert,” Karkat calls out, and for some reason, Jane pauses like that’s a surprise. Dirk isn’t sure it should be- yeah, Egbert has made enough jokes for him to know the man is not a fan of dessert, but people come here only for Jane’s chocolate cake. It’d be a sin to not have it.

Jane passes over the cake, sliced neat with a swirl of whipped cream and a drizzle of her dark chocolate anise sauce over it, still warm, and Roxy carries it out just then.

He doesn’t get to ask her about it, unfortunately, because he very much does still have work to do. And he refuses to send out bad food or start any kind of small fire in the kitchen, so he has to focus. Plates go out, plates come back, feedback is given for all fucking tables except Egbert’s, and, Dirk is pretty pleased to note, not a single thing comes back to be redone, not even the steak. Perfect.

It doesn’t hit him that Egbert is still here until there’s a lull in the orders, and he can catch his breath for a second.

“He’s been here for a while,” Dirk finally says, noting that there’s absolutely no dessert plate, empty or not, coming back from Egbert’s table. This is just an aside to Rox, who simply shrugs.

“He’s uhm, savoring it, I guess? As he should,” they add with a grin. “It’s Janey’s best. I’mma bring him some coffee, though. On the house, you think, boss lady?”

“Mmhm,” Jane agrees, though Dirk is willing to bet she hasn’t paid attention to a single word Roxy has said this entire time. The last couple of hours of service tend to be busier for her than for the rest of them, but she has a somewhat capable assistant, and Dirk knows enough about dessert to know that he shouldn’t be involved in that at all. Especially Jane’s desserts.

“Hey, asshat,” Karkat breaks in, palm slapping against the wall. “We still got two more mains to go, last ones of the night. You gonna talk like some old fucking ladies the whole time or are we going to finish this shit so I can go home?”

“Finish this shit,” Dirk says dutifully. The last two courses of the night need to get the same attention as the first, and Dirk isn’t a fan of sloppiness, least of all for himself.

And if he shoves the last plate over at Karkat a little pointedly, to show that the shit is, in fact, finished, that’s his own business. Tragically, it doesn’t help him any with getting the hot goss, given that Roxy is still in the dining room and Jane is dealing with the very last dessert orders, but it does let him linger near the door, a bit closer to it than he really should, to look at John Egbert contemplating his empty plate before offering Roxy a smile and a wink as they take it.

Gross, flirting.

He darts out of the way as Roxy enters the kitchen, though, giving them a tilt of the head in question, and receiving a thumbs up in return. No time to interrogate, though, because they’re heading right back out to pass the check over and Dirk has to give up his spot by the doors. Not by choice, let it be known; Karkat physically drags him away.

So Dirk only catches the barest glimpse as Egbert makes his way out, startled blue gaze meeting his own for just a moment before it drifts back to his phone, and John Egbert’s out the front door within seconds. He’s got no right to be unreadable. And, more to the point, he has no right to make Dirk feel nervous. He knows he cooks well, he knows that this food is, objectively, pretty good, because everyone else in the restaurant seemed just fine with it, and also because they wouldn’t be doing well if the food was bad.

It’s just- well. Egbert’s a smiling guy. Dirk knows that. He’s a comedian, for fuck’s sake. But he wasn’t exactly smiling when he left, and that niggles at him. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but Dirk has seen (or heard) enough about happy customers to feel reasonably confident that Egbert should be one. Especially since there weren’t any issues with his food.

Or maybe Dirk is just reading too much into seeing the guy’s face for 0.2 seconds through a small window in the kitchen door on his way out. That’s also entirely possible.

There’s quiet for a moment, before Vriska lets out a low whistle, staring at _her_ phone. Dirk’d give her shit for it but the last tables are just finishing up and they’re having a quick breather before they close; Egbert had stayed later than any of them had expected. He’d really stretched out that cake and coffee.

“Wow _za_ ,” she says. “He didn’t mince any words here.”

Son of a fuck. Dirk knew his paranoia was justified.

“What?” Dirk asks before Jane can. Even Karkat is crowding closer now, his usual rush to get home at the end of the night gone for the sake of curiosity. “What did he say? Let me see that.”

Vriska holds out her phone.

Dirk is an even-tempered man, normally. But he sees that dumb fucking tweet and he swears his vision goes absolutely red.

“Well,” he says, evenly. Jane is very quiet behind him. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not just going to lay down and _take_ it.”

Vriska downright cackles. “Top the shit outta him in this tweet war. Masculinity so fragile or what-the-fuck-ever. Vantas, you wanna bet which one wins?”

Karkat sighs, deep. “I’m going to have to set up a fucking bail fund for this shitlicking idiot, aren’t I.”

Dirk’s read The Art of War, The Prince, and Wheel of fucking Time, _and_ the My Little Pony novels. He knows how to win this fight, and he’s going to take no prisoners. He has no time to answer a dumb, rhetorical question when he’s busy typing out his response to Egbert’s fucking slander. John Egbert might’ve started the fight, but Dirk’s damn well going to finish it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The struggle to not go full Ratatouille and make Hal the rat was so real, let me tell you


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of embedded images here. John's Twitter pic is something I doodled irl, but in universe, Dave did it for him and he couldn't not use it. Dirk's is just Hella Jeff.

* * *

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] has started pestering ectoBiologist [EB]! -   
TT: First of all, you use the same buck-toothed emoticon as Jane and while I’m not going to fight her battles for her, I am going to tell her and she’s going to kick your ass.   
TT: For plagiarism, specifically.   
TT: It’d be poor form if we went around beating up all the snotty food critics who gave us bad reviews.   
TT: Oh, wait.   
TT: It wouldn’t, because it doesn’t happen.   
EB: wow!   
EB: right out the gate, huh.   
EB: someone’s getting real butthurt about one (1) bad review.   
TT: I’m just saying that if you’re going to do a review, you need to do more than ‘boring stuffy food.’   
TT: For some places, that’s practically a recommendation.   
EB: okay, fair!   
EB: so you want to know what i really think?   
TT: Yeah. I assume you’re not going to sit down and write anything detailed on your obsessively curated food blog.   
EB: uh, no.   
EB: that would be weird?   
EB: i’m not a pro at this, and also i wouldn’t obsessively curate it. if i did i wouldn’t have paid for my dinner?   
EB: like, could i run a weirdly long con where i pretend to be a food critic just to get a comped meal?   
EB: yeah, i doubt it’d be that hard.   
EB: but then if i pay for the food it’s not like a bribe and there’s no pressure from me to be nice or anything, right?   
EB: very objective.   
EB: so if i was gonna impersonate anyone at all it’d be a health inspector, except it wouldn’t make sense to do that because i sort of know jane and there’s absolutely no fucking way she would let her kitchen be a mess.   
TT: I know y’all are related, and I’m just going to put this out here. That is not going to save you from facing the consequences of what you said about her restaurant’s food?   
TT: Fucking savage.   
EB: funnily, she’s not taking it that personal!   
TT: You said you liked the dessert.   
EB: ok, yes.   
EB: i’m not normally a dessert person but that was fucking good.   
EB: maybe a little bit too sweet, though?   
TT: It’s cake, bro, I don’t know what the fuck you were expecting.   
TT: No, not just cake.   
TT: The literal most decadent chocolate cake that exists on the planet, or at least on any menu in this hemisphere.   
TT: You’re telling me you ordered that and you don’t like sweets?   
EB: well…   
EB: it sounds dumb when you put it like that!   
EB: and it was rich cake after a rich meal and i don’t really like feeling like a python fucked a slug after dinner!   
EB: the wine was really good, though :P   
TT: Oh, sure.   
TT: Our sommelier thinks you’re cute, at least.   
EB: really?   
TT: No.   
EB: oh.   
EB: that was mean!   
TT: Dude.   
TT: Even if it was, I’m just being mean back, so it’s fine.   
TT: Anyway, this is dumb as hell, we’re not five-year olds shoving at each other in a sandbox.   
TT: At the very least, you’re three.   
EB: wow, again?   
EB: if you’re trying to save some kind of reputation here, you’re really not helping!   
TT: ‘Save some kind of reputation.’   
TT: It doesn’t need saving. My DMs might if your rabid fans don’t cool down, but I’ve got endless vitriol and a block button at the ready.   
EB: oh, jeez, sorry about that.   
EB: i know its gonna sound like, insincere, but like i do mean it.   
TT: It’s fine, man. I’m no stranger to insane Twitter stans. I’m more concerned that you went and outed your PesterChum on there.   
EB: well, like you, i’ve got a whole entire block button, i guess?   
EB: and no one uses this thing anyway.   
TT: How’d you know I use it?   
EB: uhhh   
EB: honestly?   
EB: you’re definitely the kind of person to just download it anyway to annoy me on here.   
TT: Rude, but true.   
EB: and also jane told me she has it, so.   
EB: kinda figured!   
TT: This is some kind of plot, I see.   
EB: for what?? there’s no plot, i’m not plotting.    
TT: Free food.   
EB: you’re the one who started this!!   
TT: That doesn't mean this wasn't your whole plot all along.   
EB: we just did the bit where i explained how i paid for my meal.   
TT: Yeah, I'm working on that part of the conspiracy. Give me a second to work out the kinks.   
EB: jeez!   
EB: at least have your accusations in order BEFORE you make them.   
TT: You want me to make you another meal. And this one will be free of charge.   
EB: why would i want you to cook for me again when i didn't like it the first time?   
EB: like.   
EB: man.   
EB: you really need to get it together!   
EB: c'mon.   
TT: You didn't like it because you ordered the wrong thing. Or, let's say, you decided to be that tool who went to a restaurant serving a cuisine they didn't like, solely to complain about it.   
EB: that's not what happened!   
EB: jane said i should be honest about what i thought.   
EB: and that she wouldn't hold it against me.   
EB: she never said her chef was insane and going to like, start a feud over it.   
TT: Yeah, for some reason she thinks I have impulse control.   
TT: Seriously, though. She said to be honest and you believed her?   
EB: ...   
EB: listen.   
EB: she's not the one coming at me!   
EB: and you made my food!! you should have impulse control. don't cooks, like, need that?   
TT: I'm head chef, one. I went to culinary school. That is literally where Jane and I met.   
TT: Two, obviously what I do for work is different.   
TT: I don't cook like that for myself.   
TT: But I also don't think you should go around insulting food and calling it old-fashioned when you knew what you were getting it into, much less accuse the chef of being sleepy. You think I can sleep in a kitchen with Karkat fucking Vantas yelling at me? Think again.    
TT: The place is branded as serving classic food for a reason.   
EB: haha yeah, karkat’s pretty loud.   
EB: wait.   
EB: what do you cook for yourself?   
TT: See, this is where the free meal motivation comes into play.   
EB: uhhh.   
EB: it sounds like you're offering a free meal.   
EB: are you offering a free meal?   
TT: You can, in fact, eat your own words for free.   
EB: okay, that was a good comeback, i'll give you that.   
EB: but like.   
EB: are you offering?   
TT: Yeah. I'm going to cook you something good, you're going to eat it and love it, and you're going to take back what you said about the restaurant.   
EB: what if i like your food and still think it's old-fashioned there.   
EB: like.   
EB: a man can have two thoughts?   
TT: I've seen your specials. You're not one of those men.   
EB: is this free meal going to be poisoned?   
TT: Are you allergic to anything?   
EB: no!!   
EB: now i think you're gonna put it in!   
TT: Or, I don't want to accidentally kill you via, like. Mint.   
EB: i'm not allergic to mint, that would be dumb.   
EB: but a peanut will kill me and i'll make sure you go down for it!   
TT: What, you don't carry an Epi pen?   
EB: yes!! i do!   
TT: Then chill.   
TT: No peanuts, got it.   
EB: that doesn't tell me no poison.   
TT: Friday at 7. I'll take the night off, so will you. I'm at Apartment 14A, 1320 Alden.   
TT: Be there or be square.   
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] has ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]! --   
EB: um.   
EB: i guess i'm free friday at 7.   
EB: see you then?   
EB: wait, i don't kow what to wear.   
EB: you're not going to answer, are you.   
EB: bluh.   
\-- ectoBiologist [EB] is now an idle chum! --

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself very hungry coming up with this menu.

“No, Jane, I haven’t murdered him yet. He hasn’t even shown up,” Dirk calls out to his cell phone, where it’s resting on the counter. He’s on speaker right now, and no matter how much he absolutely hates speaking via phone, he’s also cooking and he needs his hands free. “And besides, I wouldn’t kill him after I publicly had a Twitter feud with him and invited him to my house. I’d do it in a few months or so when the hush has died down.”

“Dirk-!” He can just picture her outraged expression, and it nearly makes him smile. “Okay, okay, fine. Just. Knock his socks off, okay? For me.”

“I will. Believe me, my dessert is lost for your not being here,” he says, entirely honest. “The weather’s not right for pastry and I’m not risking a rubbery Genoese.”

“Is your menu still _that_ big a secret?” she asks, curious.

“Nah. Not after tonight’s done. I told him I’d surprise him, anyway, and I don’t trust Roxy not to tweet about it or some shit.”

“You know what, Mr. Strider? That is _very_ fair. I’m amazed they’re not trying to peer through your windows as we speak!”

“Oh, you and me both, Ms. Crocker. I was considering getting them electrified just for this, but they’d never have forgiven me.”

“That, and all those bird feeders you’ve got out there would be a terrible idea,” Jane says, laughing.

“No, no, that’s how I’ll get some good rotisserie,” he deadpans back.

“You’d better not be serving electrocuted seagull to a food critic!”

“I’d better not serve feces sprinkled with arsenic to a food critic. Honestly, Jane, I feel like I’ve missed a real opportunity here to recreate that iconic Spongebob episode with the nastiest burger around. The irony would be off the fuckin’ charts.”

“Dirk,” Jane says. Oh, she’s using her Serious Voice now. “He’s my cousin, and you’re really not allowed to kill him, okay?”

“I’m not,” he says, earnest. “I just want to prove him wrong and rub his face in it.”

“Well,” she laughs. “I guess that’s very like you, isn’t it, Strider? Alright. But do me a favor and just give him a chance, okay? John’s a sweetheart, but he’s not the best at some things. Funnily enough, it’s the same things you’re terrible at, hoo hoo!”

Dirk has no fucking clue what that’s supposed to mean; he’s very good at making jokes, thank you very much.

“I’ll…keep that in mind? I guess? As long as he doesn’t decide to be a huge dick while he’s here, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” Heavy on the sarcasm there, and Jane’s quiet sigh tells him she’s picked up on that. Good.

“Okay, okay. I know that’s all I can ask for, given what he said, but- still. Be nice, okay?”

“Jane, I am always nice,” Dirk says, like a liar. “But you’re going to need to tell me why I’m more offended than you are about all this, when it’s your restaurant and you’re always, uh, let’s say very careful about reputation.”

“Oh, would you look at the time, he’s coming over at seven, isn’t he?” Jane asks, changing the topic completely. It’s transparent, and it niggles at the back of Dirk’s head, but unfortunately, she’s absolutely right. “I’ll have to talk to you later, Mr. Strider, and don’t think I won’t debrief you of all the hot goss, as the kids say! Bye!”

There’s a click and the line goes dead before Dirk can hang up himself. He eyes his phone in deep suspicion- that had been real fuckin’ strange.

Jane does not normally act strange, or sound so hopeful about critics who give bad reviews. Granted, they have not had many bad reviews beyond the occasional disgruntled customer who didn’t want to wait or feedback that’s actually valuable when it comes to tweaking the recipe on a few items, and this one is her blood relative, but still.

Something’s afoot.

He just doesn’t know what it is yet. He’ll have to let this percolate in the back of his brain while he cooks, though, because he doesn’t have the time to obsess over it the way his head’s urging him to. He’s got an hour left and a metric fuckton of prep left to do.

And boy, does that time fly. Between chopping everything else, boiling rice, ensuring that the chilled items are chilling and the hot items he can make in advance are simmering away and as aromatic as they ought to be, Dirk loses track of time almost completely, at least until there’s a knock on his door and he’s yanked rudely back into reality and reminded of the reason why he’s cooking.

Fuck, he hasn’t had a chance to get dressed. Or do anything with his hair.

He glances down at himself, catalogues his apron and its various stains and spots, and decides that it doesn’t matter. He’s not here to make a good impression with anything other than his food. So Dirk washes his hands thoroughly, makes sure that nothing is going to burn if he leaves it, and goes to answer the door.

He opens it, and nearly slams it in John Egbert’s stupidly earnest face, because Egbert has brought _gifts_. He’s standing here in a tacky teal suit, with a gift bag in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other, and Dirk doesn’t trust that a single inch based on their vague interactions in person and the much less vague ones on Twitter.

But that’s not the problem.

The fact that he’s really fucking cute is the problem. This seems extremely unfair. He wasn’t ready for this. He’s a celebrity, he’s only supposed to be hot after photoshop and admired from afar. He’s not supposed to be making an effort getting dressed for this. Or for him, Dirk reminds himself. But this isn’t for him.

John’s unexpectedly tall- hell, he’s a couple inches taller than Dirk is, and that’s saying something- and broad at the shoulders and with full lips, buck teeth, and bright blue eyes; he’s got a face for dimples, and Dirk’s sure they’re present when he smiles hard enough. His hair is a mess that probably isn’t artfully styled but his suit fits him unfortunately well. He’s soft, unexpectedly so, but- this is John Egbert. The man, the myth, the dickhead. And Dirk can see the twinkle of mischief in his eyes, startlingly reminiscent of Jane.

He steps aside wordlessly to let him in and doesn’t bother with any pleasantries. He’s being rated on food, not service, and since dislike has already been established, there’s no need to bother trying to be charming. It’s not like he’s going to seduce the guy; it isn’t as if Egbert is here to be seduced, either. If either of those things were going to happen as part of a bizarre and vicious revenge cycle, it would start with a menu consisting entirely of aphrodisiacs, chocolate, and phallic food, and would end with a knife in someone’s chest. But that’s not the name of the game. Right now, he’s focused on food and making this asshole eat metaphorical crow.

“Wow, don’t mind if I come in or anything,” Egbert says, sounding a little put-out.

“Take your shoes off,” Dirk tells him instead.

“Well. Hold these.” The flowers and the gift bag are both thrust his way, and Dirk takes them gingerly as the other man gets out of his dress shoes. It’s probably for the best that he’s just unlacing them and toeing them off, rather than bending over in any way that lets Dirk get a great view of his ass.

Which is nice. In those specific pants. But he’s not looking hard or anything.

“Uh, sure,” he says, glancing down at them. The flowers are nice, they smell. Floral. Look like they were expensive, and none of them seem to say ‘fuck you, man’, which is a plus. “I’ll be back in a hot sec, I’ve got to put these in water.”

“Mhm,” Egbert says, vaguely. Dirk takes that as permission to go attempt to hunt down his least ugly flower-holding device. Unfortunately, he only has one, a gift from Roxy when they were on their pottery kick, so it’s both the most beautiful and the most tragic. He fills it with water anyway, watching it like a hawk all the while to ensure nothing leaks from the bottom. Thankfully, it seems to hold for now, so he makes his way back to the dining room.

Egbert’s already there waiting. He looks uncomfortable, but surprisingly not out of place in Dirk’s apartment. Dirk ignores that completely, and doesn’t let his mind wander to how John Egbert of all people looks like one day he might fit in here. That’s dangerous.

“Hey. You can sit down, you know,” he points out, gesturing at the table itself. “The chair doesn’t have any automatic restraints, or nails on the seat. Couldn’t get either in time.”

“Aren’t you eating with me?” Egbert asks. He’s ignored the joke completely, his brow furrowed as he looks at Dirk’s dining table. Dirk doesn’t see anything wrong with it- he’s not a genius when it comes to décor, but it’s set neatly, and for precisely one person.

“No?” Dirk blinks over at him. He’s cooking, after all.

He sets the vase with the flowers down on the table, and it does make a nice centerpiece. If Egbert’s hiding bees in there, Dirk isn’t the one who’s going to be stung in the ass by it. Hopefully.

“I’m finishing the meal as we go along,” he elaborates, as Egbert looks increasingly distressed about this for no reason other than presumably having his nefarious plan thwarted. “Having to move back and forth between eating and cooking is kind of a pain in the ass when it’s a seven-course meal. When my fine posterior hits that chair, it’s staying there for the entire meal, bro, I don’t make the rules. ‘Sides. Some of the stuff needs me to keep a careful eye on it, and I can talk to you from the kitchen if you crave my company that badly. The infinite perks of an open concept floor plan.”

“See, you just went from Food Network to HGTV, and I don’t like it.” There we go, the distress smoothed over by automatic banter. And Jane thinks he needs to be _nicer_.

“Man, they’re under the same nightmare TV family now. You think I _like_ seeing Martha Stewart’s bullshit when I’m trying to watch Cutthroat Kitchen? Fuck no. She needs to get her ass off my screen and stop trying to give me gardening tips for my lone cactus.”

“She’s just the _worst_ ,” John agrees solemnly, so earnest that Dirk finds himself nodding along before he means to. Fucksake, Strider, he tells himself. He needs to get a grip and stop having solidarity with the enemy.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat. “Anything to drink? I’ve got a decent wine selection, but I don’t mind opening up, uh. Whatever it is you’ve gotten me, or mixing a drink.”

His liquor stores exist solely for this evening, admittedly- all the other wine he has is for cooking, and while the red and white he got could be used in a dish, he has no idea what the fuck he’d make with rosé. Maybe he can recycle it as a gift, but that feels stupidly impersonal.

“Is- uh. I saw the menu and it doesn’t really look very…wine friendly? It’s not like I know wine that much, I just kind of drink it.” A laugh that actually might be kind of nervous. Interesting.

“It’s fermented grape juice,” Dirk says, completely serious. “There’s a reason I’m not the sommelier, man, I’ll tell you that. D’you just want a beer or something? This isn’t meant to be _that_ formal.”

Point in case, Dirk’s not exactly dressed to impress in his fucking Geromy apron. He kind of regrets it now, except he really doesn’t, because how could anyone regret Geromy?

John looks down at himself, and straightens his bowtie. “Right! Right. I knew that.”

Dirk does not think he knew that. But he’ll let Egbert have this one, it’d be rude to talk shit at a guest when he didn’t specify a dress code.

“Hey, I wasn’t going to judge. You might have a hot date or something after this,” Dirk calls over his shoulder. He brushes past John as he circles around to pull out his chair, and absolutely does not notice the heady spice to his cologne. It smells kind of like cloves, kind of like sandalwood. Soft, but decidedly masculine. It probably costs an absurd amount. Maybe he should get Dave to get him some of this for when _he_ has a hot date. If he has a hot date.

“Um. Well, I wasn’t going to make any plans for right after this in case you killed me, actually,” John says, cheerful without missing a beat. Damn, he’s clearly mastered his nerves. “I can’t stand someone up because I went and fucking perished.”

Okay, that’s kind of funny. Dirk’s traitor mouth nearly quirks up in a smile, and he tugs the chair out for John to park that fine ass into.

“Shame, it gives me plenty of time to swear that you left my place alive and fake a car accident,” Dirk deadpans. “One in which you just so happened to get impaled like fifty times by shrapnel. What a shame, officer, I wouldn’t have let him drive home if I thought he was drunk. This is a dark day. At least his last meal was a fucking righteous one, though.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” Dirk isn’t sure how he manages to make something so cheeky sound like an actual question, but there it is.

“Sure is. Take a pew, man. I’ll be right out with that beer. Hope you like Dusty Moose IPA.”

“I like- what?” Oh, now that’s some real concern, there. “No, no, you know what? Water’s fine-,”

“Relax,” Dirk breaks in. “I’ve got like, normal beer since I’m adult.”

“No Miller, or Dusty Whatever?” John asks, the suspicious bastard.

“None of those. I’ve got Heineken and Coors, your call.”

“Heineken. Please.”

Dirk gets the man a Heineken, relieved. He’d been fucking lying about the Coors, but Egbert might’ve wanted to trip him up. Never mind that in almost every picture of him at a bar of some kind, the guy’s nursing a bottle of Heineken like he’s at the world’s most uncomfortable dad barbecue, cargo fucking shorts and all.

Not that he’d looked, for like. Any reason other than pure research.

“Here you go. A cold one, cracked open to be drunk under the watchful stare of the boys,” Dirk announces, as he sets it down.

John takes a sip. It’s beer, his expression doesn’t really change. Dirk’s not sure why he was expecting it to, but it’s still odd to see him looking so thoughtfully around Dirk’s space. Dirk doesn’t have any clue what he’s seeing, and he actively has to try not to think about it. He cleaned, everything’s spotless, and the air is heady with ginger, garlic, and a mix of spices. And now the mildly sour tang of alcohol, in here.

Maybe he should light a scented candle in here to mask it. But it’s too late to save face on that one now.

“Thanks,” Egbert says. “You have a nice place, by the way. It’s- cozy, I guess? Feels very you. And it has a nice kitchen, haha.”

“Well, that’s kind of an important thing,” Dirk points out. Feels like him? What the hell does that even mean? “Seeing, y’know, as I like to cook.”

“That’s cool,” Egbert agrees. He’s nodding, very enthusiastic, and he doesn’t look entirely unlike some kind of adorable puppy hanging off Dirk’s every word. Maybe this is the wrong John Egbert and in fact he’s the one who’s going to get murdered tonight. Weirder things have happened. This is what he gets for giving a comedian his address. “I, uh, am not that good at cooking. I mean, I can make a really good lasagne? And a couple of other comfort food things, but that’s about it. I kind of wish I could do more, my dad used to be in the kitchen, like, all the time, except I never really wanted to learn.”

Dirk has no clue how to respond to that one.

“My dad didn’t bother cooking,” he says, deciding that weird brutal honesty is going to be the best one. “There wasn’t much food around, either, but I made do. Cooking’s fun, and it’s not that hard once you find the time and energy for it. The rat movie was right, bro, anyone can cook. But some people probably shouldn’t.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it.” Egbert’s laughing, quiet, and Dirk really dislikes how much he actually likes the sound. He clears his throat a bit.

“I need to get back to the kitchen, so- sit tight? Let me know if you need anything,” he says, and whisks right out of the room so he doesn’t have to see what expression Egbert’s making behind him.

His hands are a little bit unsteady when he grips his knife afterwards, but he takes two deep breaths and reminds himself he has one goal, and one goal only, and that’s to prove Egbert wrong. This is personal shit and Dirk is going to emerge fucking victorious, so help him God.

Jane is probably shaking her head at him from- wherever she is, really, but this is important. Whatever Egbert is bad at, it’s not on Dirk to compensate for that. He barely knows the guy. And he’s got much more important things to focus on. Like noodles, and plating, and getting his shit together.

The first amuse-bouche is just about prepped, sitting patiently in a bowl in the fridge; now it’s just about presentation. Two spoons, scooped out, sauce drizzled carefully on each one. Plate wiped clean, examined from every angle, until Dirk is as satisfied as he can be.

“Alright, Strider,” he murmurs to himself, and carries it into the dining room. In front of Egbert it goes, and Dirk takes a step back, expectant.

“Amuse-bouche, bhel,” he says, by way of explanation, because all Egbert is doing is looking.

The reaction is underwhelming, to say the least. Egbert is still staring almost dubiously at the dainty little mouthful of puffed rice, pomegranate seeds, shaved ginger, and spring onions settled onto a soup spoon. It’s a riot of colors and textures, the kind of dish that Dirk had to teach himself how to eat, but it’s probably as far from ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘stuffy’ and ‘boring’ as you can get. That, and it’s packing a _lot_ of chilli. Dirk had asked how spicy Egbert could eat, and when he’d been told ‘spicy as anything, haha,’ well. How could he not take that at face value, right?

Dirk isn’t going to do _white people spicy_ tonight, that’s for fuckin’ sure.

“It goes in your mouth,” he says, as faux-helpful and cheerful as he can manage. It’s his best imitation of a customer service voice- Roxy calls it deeply unsettling and always tells him to stop. He figures now is an excellent time to employ it.

“It’s so- cute,” John says. He sounds dazed by this. “Like, that little spoon? The crunchy bits on top? I’m not really, like, an Instagram person, but I kind of feel like I should take a picture of it?”

This isn’t cute at all. John Egbert and his awe, specifically. He’s willing to admit that the presentation _is_ kind of adorable, even if he’s not going to go full ‘cute animal swimming in katsu curry kawaii’ for any of this.

“I’ve got an actual bowl of it in the kitchen,” Dirk tells him. “If you want to go full obnoxious foodie later, we can set something up. Go on, it’s not going to kill you. No white powder on it, see?”

“Uh. Why would I be looking out for white powder?”

“Y’know, powdered sugar can disguise a lot. Haven’t you ever read Flowers in the Attic?” A very faint smirk. Maybe it’s mean to unsettle him so much when he’s going to eat, but Dirk really can’t let go of the poison jab.

“No?”

“Maybe you should. Just a suggestion.”

“Now I don’t think I’m going to like it very much,” John frowns. With his whole face. It’s stupidly attractive, and Dirk’s just not going to think about that right now, no matter how full his bottom lip is.

“It’s a polarizing piece of work, to say the least.” Egbert honestly looks like he’s mulling that over, and Dirk’s not going to give him the Goodreads summary of a V.C. Andrews book, but he’s kind of tempted to. Maybe if he phrases it as a dare, he can tip the scales.

“Is that the kind of thing you like to read, a lot? You seem like you like to read.” What the fuck kind of question is that, really?

“Real astute observation, bro,” Dirk drawls out. He flicks his eyes over to the bookshelf towering on one side of the living room, just in John’s peripheral vision. Even shaded, the tilt of his head makes it unmistakable.

John’s face colors a very nice shade of pink.

“Bluh, you’re just making this weird and stressful and I’m going to eat before I say anything worse,” he declares all in one breath. Look at that. Comedian and celebrity personality John Egbert, absolutely flustered, and Dirk’s the one doing it. He shouldn’t be getting such a power kick out of this, but. Whoops.

He just hums quietly, and watches.

Normally, he wouldn’t be looking. Normally, he’s separated from the diners by this convenient thing called a door, which exists solely as a boundary between the mundane, intimate peace of the dining room and the absolute fucking chaos of the kitchen. No one wants to know the amount of shouting that goes into getting their steak dinner plated, after all, and with an entire batch of customers ready to shed their human skins and turn into complete monsters if there’s so much as a smudge of sauce out of place (okay, this might be unfair to their more decent regulars, but the bad ones stick out like the worst kind of sore thumb), Dirk is usually grateful to hear their comments delivered second-hand.

Point is, he rarely gets to sit and watch someone eat, and he’s trying not to make it awkward. But John Egbert is very much used to having other people’s eyes on him, and although Dirk thinks he squirms a little, he lifts the spoon very carefully, and- pauses.

“All in one mouthful?”

“All in one,” Dirk agrees. “Don’t worry about being dainty, or manners. Your mouth’s big for talking shit, that’s why there’s extra. I knew it’d fit.”

“Oh, fuck you, man,” Egbert says, good-natured. “Just for that I’m going to aim your way when whatever you’ve poisoned me with makes me projectile vomit blood, or- whatever.”

“Apron’s seen worse,” Dirk tells him cheerfully. “Eat up.”

A hum, and he does. Mouth opening wide, lips closing around the spoon. There’s some crunching, which should probably be disgusting, but Dirk is far too busy watching Egbert’s expression for any hint of what he thinks.

He can tell when he chilli hits at least; John blinks a few times, and a flush spreads across his face, but that’s it. He chews, swallows, and then repeats the whole process with the next spoon. Dirk is absolutely not thinking about how good he’d look flushed for other reasons, because that would be bad and wrong, and also extremely distracting in a way he doesn’t need.

A pink tongue darts out, sweeps up a single grain of puffed rice that had been woefully misplaced at the corner of his mouth, and his determined train of thought comes very close to getting derailed.

“Alright,” is all Egbert says, and he grins over at Dirk. Like that’s any feedback at all. Yes, food is meant to make people smile or whatever, but Egbert smiles for a living. This is ridiculous. Dirk isn’t going to be baited into asking for his opinion and fishing for a compliment, though. That’s not who he is.

So he just takes the plate and heads to the kitchen to get the next amuse-bouche. Soup, also prepped and ready, easy to pour into a delicate, shallow bowl that is unfortunately just plain and classy, as opposed to the truly hideous homemade ones he made with Dave and still has lurking in his cupboard, like misshapen dongs can be predatory at all. Somehow, he doesn’t think Egbert would appreciate them. And besides, the soup’s not exactly creamy or thick enough to warrant it for that particular joke.

A quick taste to check for salt, and Dirk lets out a slow breath. It’s good, and hopefully it will be to Egbert’s taste; this is a lot more delicate than the bhel. He adds the noodles, reminds himself not to fuss with them too much, and carries the bowl over along with an actual soup spoon, and chopsticks. If Egbert doesn’t know how to use them, he’s going to be very entertained.

“Another amuse-bouche, cucumber soup. Cold, with crystal noodles.” Dirk puts it down, and thankfully, there’s no spillage. Christ, that would’ve been a disaster.

Egbert gets the first mouthful, makes a noise that could be approving or disapproving, and that is just not good for Dirk’s nerves. He was an idiot for thinking the feedback would be immediate.

But he can’t stay to see if more is forthcoming- he has spring rolls to fry and dumplings in the steamer to check on, and that’s going to take some time. The rolls are his favorite of the whole lot, thinly sliced beef with cumin and coriander and peppercorns shot through it, a much more fiery complement to the traditional vegetarian dumplings and the katsu-filled buns. He needs to keep an eye on this, though, get them out and onto a paper towel to soak up excess oil _before_ they can get too brown.

He curses when he leaves the first one too long. Fuck. It gets put aside- good thing he has a couple of spares, but still. Dirk doesn’t like making mistakes.

He manages to get the rest to the right color, and leaves them to cool a bit while he assembles the plate and dispenses sauces into dainty ramekins. One large bun, two dumplings, three rolls. He makes sure the burner is off and the pot moved to a cool- well, cool _er_ one- so the oil can stop bubbling, and he brings it over.

And maybe there’s something very pleasing about how Egbert’s eyes widen a little as Dirk replaces his empty bowl with these. He’d timed it well.

“Appetizer, assorted platter. Steamed buns, spring rolls, dumplings. You’ve got soy sauce with a bit of ginger and wasabi for spice in one bowl, and a chili honey one in the other, with a hint of tamarind. That’s for the spring rolls,” Dirk explains. “They’re still pretty hot, so be-,”

The roll crunches satisfyingly as Egbert just bites into it before Dirk can finish his warning.

“Careful,” he says anyway. Okay, this is pretty funny, and would make for excellent blackmail material- John Egbert, mouth hanging open and face increasingly red as he tries to fan his tongue while chewing at the same time, all because he bit into a too-hot spring roll. Sure, everyone’s been there before, but this is just plain funny. And probably more attractive than it should be, given how fucking ridiculous he looks.

“Thanks- thanks for the warning,” Egbert says, a little strained since he’s gulping down his beer like his life depends on it. Well, it’s cold enough to help, at least.

“Dude, there’s no way you didn’t hear me frying in there,” Dirk points out. And then takes mercy. “But if you want ice water to help…?”

“Bluh- yeah. That’d be great, thanks,” he says. Aw, he can’t even meet Dirk’s gaze. That’s probably the best part of it, although Dirk has to admit he’d prefer it if that was due to the crushing realization of being wrong. Whatever, the night is still young.

He gets the water, makes sure it’s as cold as possible. Mouth burn is fun for no one.

“Seriously, though. You can take your time with these, the next one’s going to be a bit longer. Just let me know if you need anything else.”

Egbert nods from where he’s taking a long sip of water, and Dirk spends a fraction of a second too long staring at the bob of his Adam’s apple. Fucksake.

“Alright. Um. Thanks. Sorry you had to see that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get it on video,” Dirk tells him. “But don’t worry, I’m very good with words. When I relate all this to Jane, she’s going to see it like she was here.”

“Oh, come on!” John pouts, honest to fucking God _pouts_ , and it shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. If Dirk did that, he’d look deranged. Life really isn’t fucking fair. “She’s already got _so_ much blackmail material on me because we’re related, all of which she’s created- she doesn’t need more!”

“And you started this knowing that? Wow. You’re a brave man.”

“I didn’t start anything! She told me to say what I thought, and that I could be, you know, kind of mean if I had to because-,” Egbert cuts himself off abruptly, and clears his throat. “Reasons. Yes. You should probably finish cooking?” He’s looking anywhere but at Dirk now, and that’s interesting. More evidence to the fact that there’s something going on; Dirk just wishes he had the time to examine it. Now he just has to make sure the curry’s perfect and get the rice all crisped up in its stone bowl without burning.

“I should,” Dirk agrees, slowly. “Like I said, wait for those to cool properly.” He casts Egbert one last look before returning to the kitchen. Right. Rice, and he needs to check and see if the sorbet is ready. It should be, given that it was the first thing he started in the ice cream maker, and it’d only needed a little before Egbert got here, but he wants to be sure.

Dirk helps himself to the slightly-too-dark spring roll from before, once the rice is portioned out and sizzling carefully, and decides that if Egbert thinks _this_ is bad, then there’s no helping him. He doubts that, but he doesn’t know what to do with Egbert liking his food, so he focuses on the possibility that he might not- he didn’t like what Dirk had made before, but-

Ugh. No. None of this. He needs to get it together. This is a solid menu, it’s out there, it’s exciting, which is what the main complaint had been before. And he sure wasn’t fucking asleep cooking it, Egbert’s got proof of that. Hell, it’s one of the most challenging things that Dirk’s done in a while, culinary-wise, and he knows it’s going to pay off one way or another. Things are fine, and he needs to focus and do his job, just like he always has. It might be a lot of effort to impress one person, but it’s a matter of pride.

While the rice sizzles, he sears the marinated prawns for a good color. He gets a spoon, takes a quick taste of the vindaloo itself, and lets out a low whistle. It’s nice and thick, not quite a gravy at this point, but that’s what he wanted. That’s potent. But there’s rice, and he’ll have a bit of yoghurt on the side to cool off, if need be. And perhaps a bit on the top as a garnish.

The presentation for this one, he’s fussed over a bit. More than he’d like to admit. But he’s come up with something he likes, at least. Sauce first, spread on the rice. God, he hopes it hasn’t burnt, but he knows the timing for this almost by heart right now. The prawns come off the heat, get plated up onto the rice. Carrots and cucumbers, all thinly sliced into strips follow, and he’s very careful this time about how he spoons a little more sauce to cover the shrimp. It doesn’t need to overwhelm. A sprig of coriander to finish, and a drizzle of yoghurt in a neat circle, and he’s peering in on Egbert.

The plate is just about empty, and he’s glancing down at his phone, but like he’s just been preternaturally alerted to Dirk’s presence, he looks up and beams.

“Hey. Are you nearly done?” he asks. “If not, I miiiight want seconds of those rolls.”

Ha. Now that’s some good feedback, isn’t it? Even if John is very obviously trying to be coy about it.

“I’m done, yeah, just making sure you’re ready for it. And this one, I’m going to tell you now, is still hot. So don’t go trying to burn your tongue off from temperature before the spice does it.”

“Is that a challenge?” Egbert asks, like a moron.

“No. It’s really not. You’ve scalded it enough for today, haven’t you?”

“…That’s fair. But they looked good, in my defense?”

“They weren’t going to look _bad_ ,” Dirk points out as he takes the plate away. Into the dishwasher it goes.

He grabs the oven mitts- neon orange and smuppet print- and keeps them on as he carries the bowl over to Egbert. It’s still steaming and sizzling. Egbert’s eyes go saucer-wide.

“Fish. Or, well- seafood. Prawn bibimbap, a twist on vindaloo. Again, hot,” he advises, tugging the mitts off once the bowl’s been put down.

“Those are really ugly,” John says, but it’s absent, not a hint of a bite before it. “I don’t think I’ve had, like, curry in a while?”

“Uh. Okay. Well, enjoy it?” Dirk really doesn’t know what else he’s meant to say to that one. “And, again, take your time.”

“Are you- going to sit?”

Dirk glances over at him, at the bizarre, naked hope in those blue eyes, and sits. What the fuck is going on, honestly?

“Yeah, sure. I don’t need to do prep, and I’m not going to make the lamb chops this far in advance, else they’ll get cold,” he shrugs. It’s not weird, nope, just sitting down and watching this guy eat. If he was dressed nicer and eating too, this’d feel distinctly like a date. Which- would be absurd. He’s not even remotely John Egbert’s type. And more to the point, Dirk’s sworn off men who wear cargo shorts unironically.

And also Egbert is still a dick.

But it’s getting kind of hard to hold on to that when he’s been pretty personable today, and Dirk has to face the fact that he’s probably been the asshole in this situation. Fucksake.

“Sorry,” he says, and it feels all kinds of inadequate, and like an admittance of guilt. “I haven’t been the…friendliest tonight.”

Egbert blinks at him. There’s a spoonful of food halfway to his mouth.

“I don’t think you’re ever the friendliest. So, it’s okay.”

Wow. He’s never going to apologize to this guy again. He makes sure the look he gives John is just as unimpressed as he needs it to be.

“You should probably eat,” he points out. Egbert looks back at him, and then puts the spoon in his mouth. Honestly, it’s so simple, it’s kind of anticlimactic. Dirk barely has the time to gear himself up to look for John’s reaction.

And- okay. This one doesn’t disappoint.

There’s a muffled sound, but it’s absolutely approving, because the look on his face is damn near rapturous.

Dirk is decidedly not going to think about what else he can do- cook, what else he can _cook_ \- to put that look on John Egbert’s face again. Those are dangerous, shark-filled waters with piranhas on the side and rip currents everywhere, and he is heeding the warning signs and staying on dry land.

But if John likes curry, he’s willing to experiment until he gets peanut-free Thai food just right. You know. For a more allergy-friendly and inclusive world.

Yeah. Who the fuck is he kidding.

“Okay,” Egbert says, and he’s even a bit choked up. Hopefully he’s not actually choking, that would be a disaster. “You, uh. You weren’t kidding about the spice, were you. Wowza. I think my tastebuds are ready to fly off? But in a good way. Obviously. Uh. Yes.”

Egbert stops himself from talking before Dirk can reply, takes a long swig of water, and shovels more food into his mouth.

“Manners have gone out the window, huh,” he observes.

“Manners went out the window when you kept being mean to me on Twitter,” John points out, not entirely unfairly, once he’s chewed and swallowed.

“You let them in with your- fancy dinner party gifts.” Dirk thinks this is a fair point, too, but it’s interesting how Egbert flushes a bit at the statement.

“Well. They’re- yes. Dinner party gifts. What you get for anyone you go to dinner parties with. I looked it up,” he says, nodding vehemently. If he didn’t already think Egbert was weird as fuck, this would be the weird straw that broke the camel’s back.

Dirk just raises an eyebrow.

“Put that back where it came from,” John says, spoon pointed right at him. Dirk keeps it right where it is. “Hey! I see the skepticism. And how can you even be skeptical when you’re the one who said what it was! I’m agreeing with your suggestion. Because it’s right.”

“Maybe I’m just doing this to wind you up so you choke to an inglorious death on a grain of rice,” Dirk suggests. “You fluster a lot easier than I thought you would, for a famous dude.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are famous people not meant to have feelings? I know your brother, and just because he likes to say he doesn’t have feelings doesn’t mean he’s not sitting there crying at Titanic every time he watches it!”

“…You’ve watched Titanic with Dave?” Dirk had known, in some distant way, that Dave and John were acquaintances at the very least, friends at best. Dave is a friendly dude, and Karkat tends to hate the limelight, almost as much as Dirk does, and both Dave and John were launched into stardom at about the same time. They’re close to the same age, too, even if John’s a couple years older. They’ve posted pictures together before, his brain helpfully reminds him, and pulls up one of those with Egbert beaming and his arm slung over Dave’s shoulders, Dave flipping the camera off with his usual close-mouthed smirk.

He did not know they regularly hung out and watched movies together. Let alone Titanic.

“Uh!”

“Well, Dave’s long since given up on trying to teach me how to apologize, so don’t expect him to be able to convince me on anything here.” Nice save, Strider. The atmosphere is tense again, and when he sneaks a peek at John, the guy looks wilted as he stares down into his bowl. Christ. This is what Dirk gets for trying to talk to him. A knot rises in his throat for no goddamn reason, and Dirk makes sure to take his time as he stands up. He doesn’t want to look like he’s trying to flee the scene or anything.

“Right,” John says. “Uh. I wasn’t- I didn’t think that. I mean, you’re going to apologize either way, if it turns out I hate this, but. I don’t hate it. So.”

“Yeah,” Dirk says, dumbly. ‘I don’t hate it’ being a compliment shouldn’t be what he’s reduced to, and yet. “I could kind of tell, you looked happy eating it.”

“Will you- sit back down?” He sounds almost pleading, which is ridiculous, after Dirk went and made this so awkward.

Dirk sits anyway, and looks anywhere but at John.

“Okay. I’m sitting. Ass in chair, are you happy now?” he asks. But his deadpan humor gives way to a genuine edge to his voice, and Dirk resists the urge to grit his teeth. He lets out a slow breath instead. He needs to get it together. “Fuck. Ignore that. I’m sitting. Let’s- maybe rewind, try again. If you actually do want to talk.”

“Yes. Yeah. Let’s- try that one again.” John ducks his head, scrapes a bit of crisped rice off the bottom of his bowl. “I was going to ask why it was so surprising that I was flustered? Like. I’m a human person.”

“Now you’re just overselling it,” Dirk grumbles. He relents, though. Egbert has, however grudgingly, earned some small semblance of sincerity by putting up with his bullshit tonight. Or even just in this conversation. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re human, or anything. But celebrities are basically super-human and put on a certain pedestal, and while I’m not going to get into how fan entitlement and commodification of your existence is horrifying on several levels, I will point out that it’s hard to reconcile me, a regular dude, as having an opinion that matters to you.

“And not in a particularly self-deprecating way,” he’s quick to add, realizing how that one probably sounds. He’s not fishing for any compliments here. “Dave’s famous. And he gets a lot of shit. I honestly wasn’t expecting you to reply to me on Twitter at all, because at some point, you develop a filter that enables you to ignore assholes online, or you just don’t read the replies to your shit anymore. Both of which are valid strategies.”

“Oh. I mean, I guess that’s fair? My notifications do get pretty clogged up and all that, but,” John shrugs, uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I couldn’t ignore it, not when you threw down a gauntlet like that!”

“Are you saying I was such an asshole that it broke your mental filter? Damn. You’d better beef that firewall up, bro.” Dirk’s teasing, mostly; he knows he was a dick, but also? He knows what the Internet is like. While he usually ends up thinking about how he’s the worst, when he really starts to spiral, if he looks at Twitter, there is empirical and irrefutable proof that he is not.

“No!! Can we stop talking about this? I answered and now we’re here, and I’m nearly done with this so, like. Kitchen time for you?” John says, clearly flustered, and clearly in a rush. But Dirk doesn’t feel too bad this time around. No, now he’s just suspicious. He stands slowly, makes sure this translates as he looks at John. He’s quiet for a long moment, and he knows the squirming is not just because this dish is searing fucking hot.

“Okay. I’ll be back soon. With some milk, maybe,” he adds, as an afterthought. The complete change in topic just makes Egbert look more torn, which isn’t quite what Dirk had been going for, but will suit him anyway. He’s going to find out what’s up.

“No milk. I’m fine. Totally fine,” Egbert says, and if he wants to play tough, Dirk has no intention of stopping him. Maybe he isn’t as invested in making John suffer anymore, but hey, he can give the man what he wants. Or not give him what he needs, because he refuses to ask for it.

Dirk slips into the kitchen again. He won’t be in there for long, there’s only four things to do for this course: Obtain sorbet, quenelle out a nice scoop, place garnish, obtain spoon.

He hesitates for a moment, and scoops some out for himself too, into an identical bowl. He’s already been invited to sit. This is fine. He brings both out, and sets Egbert’s down in front of him.

“Palate cleanser, pickled ginger, lemon, mint sorbet,” Dirk says, sliding over the little bowl, with a perfect, pale-yellow scoop settled in it and a single sugared mint leaf on top. It looks good, if he says so himself. More so here than in the harsh light of his kitchen.

Egbert’s not looking at that, though; John’s eyes are focused on where Dirk’s standing with his own bowl.

“What? I can get hungry, and this’ll be finished quickly,” he says as he sits down. Is that too defensive? Shit, it might be. But Egbert invited him before, and this is his house. He can sit and eat a sorbet with his guest if he wants.

“It’s ice cream,” John finally says, apparently deciding to not say anything about Dirk joining him again. Okay, then. “Isn’t this dessert?”

“It’s a palate cleanser, didn’t you just hear?” Dirk asks, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously, dude, you’ve still got one more main and some dessert to go. Unless you’re telling me you want the meal over with that soon, in which case, I guess I’ll keep the lamb for myself.”

John makes a face; it’s a complicated expression that Dirk’s honestly not sure how to parse.

“No- no, I don’t want it to be over so fast,” he sighs. “I just. Dessert. We went over the sweets thing and now you’ve made me ice cream-,”

“Sorbet, Jesus. They’re different.”

“-and a dessert.” He sounds really fucking bummed about this, and Dirk doesn’t understand that, either.

“Egbert. John. Bro. Listen. It’s a fucking sorbet. It’s not sweet- literally, what about ginger, lemon, and mint sounds sweet to you?” Dirk has to fight the urge to roll his eyes, there. Egbert’s spiralling for some unknown reason, and the reason is entirely invented. Only one of them are allowed a crisis tonight, and he’s pretty sure he has a monopoly on that. “And the dessert isn’t too sweet, either. I already told you I don’t have that much of a sweet tooth myself, and let’s be real, there’s no way I could stuff you this full of rich food and then follow it up with a huge-ass slice of Sachertorte or cheesecake, or even tiramisu. And tiramisu isn’t even that sweet. Just shut up and eat the sorbet already.”

John looks at him with wide eyes for a moment, but he does shut up and eat the sorbet.

And promptly screws his whole face up.

“Wh-! Christ, that was. Not sweet,” he says. Observant, this one. Dirk’s mildly horrified to realize that he’s thought that _fondly_. No. Nope, it was just sarcastic. That’s all.

“I told you it wasn’t,” Dirk huffs. He pops a spoonful into his mouth, resists the urge to let his own face pucker up. It’s _tart_ , bracing and refreshing. Dirk adores it, of course; he’s always been a fan of citrus, and while he’d considered something savory for this, maybe even with a dash of wasabi, it wouldn’t have been different enough from the previous course. But none of that means that Egbert has to like it, and Dirk tries to pretend like he’s not watching the guy like a fucking hawk. He’s pretty sure he fails.

John helps himself to another taste, a little more cautious this time.

“I like it, though,” he finally says. “It’s, like. Refreshing. I’d probably love to have this on a summer day or something after a meal? Like, a really heavy meal. It’d stop me from falling into some kind of a food coma, that’s for sure, I kind of feel like I got socked in the mouth in the best way possible. Jeez, that was kind of masochistic to say.”

“Just a little. Pickled ginger’s the stuff you get with your sushi, to eat when you swap between different rolls. It’s meant to be refreshing. But there’s a reason you have just the one scoop. This probably isn’t quite right for a dessert, but if you like ginger there’s these spiced ginger cakes? I’ve got the recipe somewhere, they’re not too sweet or anything. All you need is stem ginger.”

John blinks.

“Isn’t all ginger stem ginger? Like. I don’t think I’ve been anywhere that tried to feed me a ginger _leaf_.”

“Or they put the ginger leaf in and you didn’t know it. Places use it, for salads and stuff. Anyway. You can candy ginger, or you can have it in syrup. It’s pretty easy to make, and that’s what you use for the cake. So the ginger’s not too overpowering, but it’s not like a mouthful of pure sugar either. Shit’s good for the holidays,” Dirk adds. He’s suddenly very aware that he’s been talking more than he meant to, and he clears his throat a bit. “Uh. You could probably just ask Jane to make one for you.”

“Yeah, but. I don’t know. You could make it, too,” John says. It’s so studiously casual that Dirk nearly finds himself nodding along before he even registers it.

“I mean. I could. If you want.”

“Great,” Egbert says, and he beams so bright it’s nearly blinding. Somehow, Dirk doesn’t think this is the same as his PR smile.

“Great,” he echoes, lagging for a second as he processes this information. He’d assumed it was a one and done, and he’d never see John Egbert in person again, other than potentially as a customer, or in passing in relation to Jane.

But he’s just promised to make him a cake.

Dirk doesn’t even bake that often.

What the fuck?

“I should probably get to the kitchen and start on the main,” is what comes out of his sorbet-numb and ginger-tingling mouth. Which, while true, is hardly where he wants to leave this. What he wants to do is ask why the hell Egbert wants him to bake a cake. But that’s not in the cards, either.

“Can I- come into the kitchen? Watch you cook this one?” John’s already standing with his bowl, though, still half-eaten. Dirk hesitates. “I wouldn’t get in the way or anything. It seems pretty big, too. I’ll just be eating this there instead of here.”

Why Egbert wants to do this, Dirk has no idea. He doesn’t really make that many mistakes in the kitchen, and unless this is some particularly long con to get him fucking up on video out of sheer nerves (or, some weird prank?), there’s no harm in it.

“Not, like you have to. But, I don’t know. I kind of want to keep talking and it’s weird to shout at each other while you cook when I can just be in there.”

“And still shout at me? Kitchens are noisy, bro, even with just the one person in there.” Not to mention that Dirk has yet to figure out the ulterior motive behind this request. He’ll get there eventually, but he’d like to know it before John actually joins him. This being confused thing is happening far too often tonight for his liking.

“Well, shout at you but in the same room?”

“Fair enough. C’mon, it’s right through there,” Dirk says. He stands as well, gesturing at the doorway into the kitchen. Egbert goes first, glancing around before settling himself on one of the stools at the countertop in an area mostly clear of cooking detritus.

He tries to ignore the fact that John Egbert is in his kitchen, watching him cook, as he sets up for the lamb chops.

There’s not much chopping to do either, more’s the shame. Just sage and garlic, and the cloves just get smashed so he can fish them out later. Oil in the pan, and then it’s just waiting for it to heat; he’s made the miso butter already.

“I haven’t done this in ages,” John says abruptly. Dirk looks over to where he’s sitting, strangely tense and hunched over the countertop. He’s a bit too small for the finicky bar stools Dirk has, which only suit people who are tragically flat-assed, like himself and his brother.

“Done what?”

“Watched someone else cook. Is that, like, weird?” Egbert asks. His head’s tilted to the side, and his mood is so different. It’s almost been steadily sinking through the night, Dirk feels, and- no. It’s not even for the right reasons (ie, Dirk’s victory).

“A little bit, yeah. But I haven’t cooked like this for anyone in a while, either,” Dirk shrugs. He’s never been the best at _comforting_ or lifting any kind of mood, but. He has to try, doesn’t he?

“Really? Well,” Egbert pauses to help himself to another spoonful of sorbet. “Okay, maybe that’s not a surprise. This really isn’t what you do every day at work.”

“No, it’s not. Completely different, in fact. Not to like, shit on what Jane does or anything, because the restaurant’s doing well, and that’s really fuckin’ hard to accomplish. But that’s not necessarily the food I’d cook if I was cooking for myself, if that makes sense. Part of it _is_ that after making all that shit at work, I don’t want to come home and make it either. I like French food a lot, but I guess I’d need to be in a specific mood to eat it at this point? If that makes sense. God. I probably sound real dispassionate right now.”

“I mean, you always sound that way? Except when you were talking about this ice cream earlier, and ginger,” John amends. He’s smiling in a way that makes Dirk want to either smack him or kiss his dumb mouth, and so he just ignores it. That’s the safest thing to do.

“Sorbet,” he says instead.

“Whatever. Anyway, I don’t- really think you’re not passionate about food? Uh, you went pretty hard being offended, which is why we’re here to begin with.” That’s fair. Dirk shrugs. The oil’s hot enough, and he grabs the lamb and the butter from the fridge, discarding the plastic over the former. The meat goes first, the garlic just a split second later. The sizzle and scent fills the air. Yeah. That’s the stuff.

“I mean, you didn’t have to agree to it, either,” Dirk points out. “But here we are, you sitting in my kitchen and watching me cook like an owl looking over my shoulder or some shit.”

“I regret nothing,” Egbert tells him with a grin. “That stuff smells, like, amazing. Even if the amount of garlic you’re using is kind of scary.”

“There’s no such thing as too much garlic, bro, I don’t know what to tell you. Besides, this is making sure you’re not a vampire.”

“What? Why would I be a vampire? You put garlic in a bunch of the other stuff I ate tonight and it was fine.” Is he pouting? Man. That shouldn’t be so cute. Dirk keeps his eyes firmly on the pan, watches the lamb cook away.

“Can’t be too careful. Anyway, I guess this would’ve run you out of the house by now if you were one, so that’s eliminated. Next, silver.”

“Sil- I _have_ silver,” John damn near whines this time. There’s some rustling. “Oh my god. Dude, just turn, look over here.”

He turns, and looks. John’s just holding a silver necklace out, it looks like, the pendant clutched in his fist. Dirk squints at it.

“See? Real silver, an om. It’s, um. I wear it. My dad said my mom would’ve wanted me to have it. It got passed down through her side of the family, so.”

Dirk has…no idea what do with that. From the way John’s face is shifting from earnest to unsure, Dirk’s also fairly certain _John_ doesn’t know what he’s doing that for. He straightens up, and his posture’s more closed-off again, and something in Dirk aches to see it. Fuck.

“That’s nice, to have part of her to carry around,” Dirk says. He’s floundering, somewhat obviously. “All my dad left was a puppet and a sword, but I guess that’s pretty cool, if not as sentimental. I doubt it was a question of wanting me to have it, though. So. Yeah.”

“It is, yeah,” John agrees, his voice very oddly soft. He tucks the necklace away, and Dirk turns to flip the lamb chops, letting the silence settle. He normally wouldn’t, but he suspects John needs it.

“I don’t really remember her,” he continues, after a second. Dirk hums, risks a glance over. Whatever cloud had passed over his mood seems to have passed, at least, though Dirk’s not sure how. Or why. But perhaps he’s just pretending, putting on a happy face. That, Dirk thinks, is something he’s very good at.

“I didn’t know my mom at all,” Dirk offers. “Different circumstances, but. I can sort of get it.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. He’s chewing on his lower lip now. “It’s- god, that was a real downer, wasn’t it? I was meant to leave those all to you.”

“Oh, hilarious, Egbert. Joke about stealing my job, why don’t you.” Dirk does his best to keep his tone light, so John knows he’s not offended. He’s been offered an out and by God, is he going to take it.

“I’d never. Steal your job, I mean. I wasn’t kidding when I said I wasn’t that great at cooking; I can’t really make anything except eggs and bacon, and pasta.” This, John Egbert says, like it doesn’t even matter. “Tried a few classes for it and everything, but it never really worked out.” Something a bit odd enters his voice there, but it’s gone in a flash as John continues talking, “And, like, I eat out a lot anyway? So I can survive off that when I need to.”

He shrugs, and lifts his bowl like a heathen to slurp down the rest of his sorbet. Dirk tries very hard not to look at the line of his neck. He can even tell himself he’s succeeding.

“That’s ridiculous. I want you to know that. Like, I’m sure Jane’s probably made sure your freezer is stocked and stuff, but- you’ve really never hung out with her in the kitchen? Or no one you’ve dated has come to cook for you?” Dirk’s aware that his own biases are what’s making this hard to believe; food is such an integral part of his life- and would likely be, even if he were building robots or some shit- that he can’t imagine _not_ cooking. Or not being in the kitchen at all.

Egbert sets his bowl down, and laughs a bit awkwardly. “Uh, well. I haven’t really dated many people? I mean, the last one was this girl, and- that was ages ago. Like, we were both seventeen, ages ago. It really wasn’t that great for either of us, kind of fizzled out, which is for the best, but. She definitely couldn’t cook, and if she could, I probably wouldn’t have trusted her to do it. And before you ask, no, I’m not going to make some random hookup cook me breakfast, even if I had those.”

“I wasn’t going to _ask_ that,” Dirk grumbles. “It’d be rude as hell. And your hookups, existent or not, aren’t my business.”

“Oh.”

“Dude, your sex life and/or love life are the last two things I’m going to be judgemental about, believe me.” He’s- actually a bit bothered, that John would think he was that kind of dude. First of all, it’s not his business. Second of all, John Egbert has made a lot of ‘perks of being single’ jokes that Dirk’s listened to, and if he’s being honest, only _one_ of them was using those to convince himself it was fine. And that person wasn’t John. “By all means, you’ve got better chances than I do.”

“Hah. Well, maybe. I’m definitely better at smiling.” Dirk doesn’t need to look over to know that John’s smiling wide, and maybe a little bit false. Instead, he focuses on removing the lamb chops from the pan and setting them on a plate to rest for now. The butter gets smeared on, and Dirk’s quick to turn the heat down so he can put some greens (prepped already, just a mix of bok choy and spinach) in the pan to wilt.

“It’s like- I don’t know. I’m picky, I guess.”

“You’re allowed to be picky,” Dirk points out. “In fact, I’d probably encourage it. ‘S fine to have standards.”

“Yeah, but like. It’s never been _them_ not living up to _my_ standards,” John says. Contemplative. Dirk resists the urge to flinch. Apparently they really do just keep straying into dangerous territory.

“I’m going to venture out on a limb here- and I’m speaking from experience, too- that most of your worries about not being good enough for someone are in your head. Like. Yeah, there’s always going to be things your hypothetical partner might want you to work on, or habits you have that they don’t like, but- they’re not supposed to put you down about them beyond light-hearted teasing, and not even that if it bugs you, or if it’s something you can’t exactly help. And sometimes you just need to live with the fact that people don’t want to change, either,” he adds, and tries his best not to sound too bitter. “So. If they’re pushing you to do shit you don’t want to do, tell them. And if they keep doing it, drop them. It’s simple.”

“Wow. I didn’t know that cooking made people into life coaches,” Egbert says, obviously trying for a joke, and obviously falling short. Dirk prods at the greens, and doesn’t respond to that. He needs to get his shit together.

“…Sorry,” John tells him. Softer this time, barely audible over the slow hiss of the pan. “You’re right, I just. I don’t usually get attached, or go on dates. And even when I do, there’s stuff the other person wants that I just…can’t give, so soon? And there’s nothing wrong with me for that, it’s just shitty that they want to call me a prude for it, or whatever. Because that’s not it, and even if it was- why should that be a problem, right? Obviously, they don’t get a second date,” John adds. “I mean. I don’t need another person to go out. The romantic parts of romcoms are always the worst.”

“Don’t even get me fucking _started_ on shitty straight-trope romcoms. If you want to take care of someone so bad, get a goddamn pet, not a whole husband, Barbara,” Dirk grumbles. The greens are done, and he grabs a clean plate to get them settled, taking a moment to pick out the garlic cloves. Once he has them arranged into a neat bed, on goes the lamb. Perfect. Dirk adds a little more butter, a single sage leaf as garnish, and turns to John, who looks so fondly amused that Dirk’s traitor heart decides to skip a beat for no good reason at all. He ignores this. Literally, John just said he barely did dates, and Dirk’s pretty sure that he’s disqualified himself from a first one already, let alone a second.

“Are you eating here, or heading back to the dining room?” he asks. He’s not disappointed. There is nothing to be disappointed by. It’s just a nicer evening than expected, he has no cause to want more beyond the eventual delivery of a ginger cake.

“Here’s fine,” John says, thinking it over. Dirk simply nods, and sets the plate down in front of him. He clears away the bowl and spoon, too, replacing them with a knife and fork.

“Another main, lamb chops pan-seared in miso butter, on a bed of mixed greens.”

This time, Egbert digs right in. Dirk’s still watching for a reaction, and he gets a _very_ pleased hum that he decidedly doesn’t dwell on at all.

He’s not too worried about Egbert not liking his food anymore, that’s for sure.

Dirk contents himself with continuing to clear up, opening the dishwasher to continue loading it. This pan, he’ll need to do by hand, but it can wait.

“Mmh. So, like, are these recipes all favorites of yours? I know you said you haven’t done this, uh, much on a menu before, but.”

“A few of them are ones that I’ve wanted to try. Like the dessert, and the bhel. Others are ones that I need an excuse to make, like what you’re eating now. But I make vindaloo decently often, and the noodle soup’s pretty good.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and when Dirk looks over, John’s chewing oddly contemplatively.

“That’s pretty cool. I’m guessing you wouldn’t have gone for that if you’d known how much curry I’ve had growing up, though,” he says.

“Like hell,” Dirk tells him, reflexive, even if that’s absolutely right. “Crispy rice automatically rescues any meal, it’d have saved me even if you’ve had better.”

“Okay, I guess I _do_ have to give that one to you. I definitely haven’t had _this_ many vegetables in my prawn curry in ages. Like, apparently Thai food does it? But.”

“Peanuts.”

“Peanuts,” John agrees, with a put-upon sigh. “My body just wants to murder me for trying good food, I guess? But like, when I have a good few weeks free, I’m going to go order some fucking Pad Thai and have my epi pen handy.”

“Holy fuck, dude, do not do that. I’ll figure out some good peanut substitutes for that, we’ll make it a whole experiment.” Apparently Dirk is, in fact, going to not only disclose that he’s considered it, but offered to do it and entered an entire commitment. Between this and the ginger cake, he might even see a lot of John Egbert.

(He doesn’t mind, really. It’s not like Egbert’s hard to look at. Or, it seems, hard to talk to.)

“You’d- do that?” And there it is again, those wide blue eyes, the slight parting of his lips. Dirk cannot fucking take it.

“Yeah,” he says, gruff. “It’ll be a fun experiment, a good way to push myself.”

“Right. Yeah. And I get to try it, so it’s a win-win.” If there was a flash of disappointment there, Dirk suspects he’s imagined it; Egbert bounces back quick, cheery as ever. It’s a talent that Dirk would envy, if he ever gave a shit about trying to look outwardly happy. No, that’s pretty much a lost cause for him.

“Pretty much. You nearly done there? Want another piece?” he asks, giving his hands a quick rinse and drying them. He’s going to have some of the bhel in the fridge to tide himself over; he’s getting kind of peckish, and literally being in a kitchen surrounded by food isn’t helping. Nor is watching John eat, by the way.

“Oh- uh. Not now, no. Honestly, I feel kind of full? I probably _barely_ have room for dessert, which…I figure you’re not going to let me get out of,” John says. Dirk can tell the protest is just for show, though; he knows he’s earned trust on the dessert front after the sorbet earlier.

“I already told you it’s not too sweet. More fruity, than anything else,” he promises. Once John’s finished off the last bite on his plate, Dirk clears it instantly, and deposits it right into the dishwasher. Not his problem at the moment. “Plus, it’s pretty light. You said you weren’t a fan of heavy desserts or cake, which works fine with me since baking isn’t exactly my favorite thing to do.”

John’s brow furrows, and he leans closer over the counter to watch as Dirk opens up the fridge to get his molds out. “Wait, so what kind of dessert is it, if you didn’t bake it? Not more ice cream, I’m pretty sure you don’t keep ice cream in that.”

“I could, if I wanted to,” Dirk answers, distracted. “Quit being nosy, you’ll see it in a second. Have some patience, young padawan.” He’s a bit busy trying to get the damn spheres out. It was finicky the time he’d practiced, but he’s made enough that it’s fine if a few go awry. As long as they don’t go on the floor, he can eat ‘em later. The first one breaks, but the second and third are fine, and when he’s taken out four, he puts the rest aside for later. Next is the cube, but that one’s nice and easy, thankfully. The garnish for this one’s quick, too, and it’s not long at all before he’s presenting it to John, complete with a little fork.

“Don’t Star Wars at me,” John says, sounding- offended, for some reason? Dirk decides to ignore this.

“Dessert. Green tea jelly with lychee.” Another bowl, a perfect light green cube, with the lychee in spheres around it and a touch of gold foil on top for effect. Aesthetically, it blows everything else he’s made out of the water. He knows Egbert doesn’t much care for sweets, but he’s also been working with Jane long enough to know the importance of a good dessert. Leave them with a good taste in their mouths to complement the meal. She thinks cake can cover for a variety of sins, and she’s probably right, but Dirk’s no master of the sweeter side of things. At least not when baking is involved.

John has been getting more and more expressive as the night’s worn on, and Dirk’s curious to see how this plays out.

That, and he really, really does want to hear feedback on this particular dessert. _He_ likes it, but it’s not Roxy’s cup of tea, nor Jane’s, and Jake and Dave both will eat _anything_ , so they’re no help. He might be a little invested in Egbert’s opinion specifically, though. Just maybe.

And this one? It doesn’t disappoint. John’s eyes flutter shut, and it should probably be weird to watch him chew and swallow, but Dirk’s been doing it almost all night. Hell, he can tell when John gets the full hit of the lychee in the spheres, because the sound he makes is almost sinful. This is- unfair.

“Okay.” Egbert says, faintly strangled. “Uh. Yeah.”

Underwhelming, really, but Dirk sees the expression on his face. Not to be poetic and Biblical, but- John Egbert looks like he’s experiencing some kind of rapture.

“This wasn’t sweet, but- wow. I don’t think I’ve had any desserts like this before? Like. It’s so _delicate_ ,” John breathes out, and Dirk’s never had his heart flutter listening to a man talk about what he knows is fancy Jell-O (that he made) before, but here he is now.

He can’t quite resist a smile, and he knows John’s seeing right through his shitty attempts to do so anyway.

Dirk clears his throat a bit.

“Well, this is it. The full meal. Thoughts? Comments, concerns? You could rate me but I’m pretty sure I can guess what it’ll be,” he says, as teasing as he can. But he’s serious, too. This is chef to critic, however amateur he may be, and Dirk wants his fucking feedback. He’s been patient on a lot of things all night, but this is probably topping the priority list.

“Why didn’t you cook like this at dinner?” the asshole critic- okay, the unfortunately cute asshole critic asks, with an almost endearingly bewildered expression on his face. “You would’ve gotten like, five stars if you’d cooked like this at dinner.”

“Egbert,” Dirk says, tapping the spoon very lightly against that full lower lip. He could lean in and kiss it, he knows. He shouldn’t, though. “It’s a fucking French restaurant. I physically could not cook like this at dinner. That doesn't mean what I cooked was bad, it just means you like shit spicy enough to blow your head off. And it's five out of five hats, thanks."

"Hats, stars, same difference," he grumbles against the spoon. "I'm taking the leftovers home."

"Absolutely not. That's _my_ dinner. I slave away over a hot stove for hours and hours, and you won't even let me eat? Rude."

"Your whole job is slaving away over a hot stove for hours and hours, asshole. And you're the one who invited me over."

“You’re the one who brought me my favorite flowers,” Dirk says, amused. “And what looked like a pretty nice bottle of wine.”

“Well. Yes. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? For. Dinner parties.” It almost looks like Egbert’s going to say something else, but Dirk lets it be.

“Sure is,” Dirk agrees instead. “But if you want to bribe me into giving you leftovers, you’re going to need to do better. Cough up the praise, bro, I’m waiting for it.”

“Fine. You’re better than all the chefs on the Food Network.” Okay, not what Dirk had expected, but he can roll with that one. Especially with the now very recognizable glint of mischief in Egbert’s eyes.

“Exaggeration. There’s some good ones on there, dude. Be specific.”

“Well. I still think you could go kick Bobby Flay’s ass.”

“Man, I wouldn’t even bother cooking, I’d just break his nose,” Dirk says, amused despite himself. “But my aunt would kill me if I even thought about appearing on the Food Network, I’m afraid. She has weird beef with Guy Fieri for some reason.”

“I- what? How? Who has beef with Guy Fieri?” John looks so hopelessly confused by that, it’s very nearly cute. “ _Why_ does she have beef with Guy Fieri?”

“Fuck if I know. But I’d cook for Gordon Ramsay, I think,” he says, contemplative. “Actually, Ramsay, Zakarian, and Alex Guernaschelli could beat me up and I’d thank them for it. Doubly hard for those last two. Mad respect for Alex.”

John just blinks, and Dirk suddenly realizes he’s been kind of hogging the conversation, and with the enemy, no less.

Okay, well, Egbert’s definitely not the enemy after tonight, but it’s still hard not to think of him that way. At least not until he recants. Dirk’s prepared to go through some real Martin Luther versus the Catholic Church shit, and if he has to spend every last cent and start a couple useless wars like Leo X, so fucking be it. He could be a Medici if he had to, probably, but that doesn’t really mean he can keep talking at leave Egbert looking poleaxed.

“Sorry,” he says, after a moment. It actually sounds sincere, too. “I got off track. You were going to say something?”

“Oh-,” Egbert startles. Fidgets some. “Can I have another spoonful of dessert first? I need liquid- well, whatever state jelly is in, I guess- courage.”

“Wow. Sounds like you’re going to the gallows or something.” Dirk obligingly scoops up another spoonful, making sure he gets a bit of the topping. He’s about to pass the spoon over when he sees that Egbert’s mouth is open slightly, and, well. He can’t resist that.

He presses the spoon to the other’s lips, watches them wrap around it, followed very shortly by the sweep of a pink tongue, and-

Man. He’s fucked, isn’t he? He can still be a Medici, they were probably all kinds of horny, but he was destined to lose this one from when he chose that metaphor. Martin Luther did not, actually recant.

“Mmh,” John hums, eyes fluttering closed behind his glasses. There’s not much dessert left, and Dirk eases the spoon away. He scoops up his own portion, pops it into his mouth, and if his lips linger a little bit longer where John’s were just now, that’s his business. It’s what Egbert should’ve expected, stealing his dessert. “God. Sorry. I mean it when I say I think you should’ve cooked like that before, but, um. I guess it’s not really…on brand for Jane?”

“Yeah,” Dirk says. “She’s kind of a dictator about how she runs her kitchen. Not that I have a problem with it, given that I help her come up with the menus, but she’s not going to put this stuff on there. I just make this because I like to eat it.”

“I can see that.” Is he- staring at Dirk’s mouth? Oh, god. He really is fucked, isn’t he.

“For what’s probably the third time, now. You had something to say?” Dirk blurts out, panicking just a little. It certainly works to break the mood, so- good job there, Strider; John tenses up and stares resolutely down at the table.

“JanetoldmeifIwroteabadreviewyou’dprobablynoticemeandtalktome,” he says, all in one breath.

What the fuck.

“What the fuck.”

“Jane…said that if I came to her place and reviewed it, I’d get to meet you? Like, she’d introduce us. And she told me to be honest, and a little mean if I had to, which- okay, wasn’t hard, I don’t actually like French food that much? It’s so rich, and why does there have to be snails? Why? I feel like horror movies have told me plenty about why I shouldn’t eat snails, personally, and also they’re kind of cute and I don’t want to. So I wasn’t, like, lying about thinking the food was stuffy and old-fashioned. But, yeah. That’s it.” He’s still fidgeting. Dirk’s quiet, as he processes that. Lets it chug away at the back of his head and fucking percolate just like it should as he figures out what’s going on.

He comes up with two things. A third’s chugging away, percolating, and it’s going to pop up soon. But the first two are real important.

One: No goddamn wonder Jane wasn’t so worried about the Twitter thing. She fucking instigated it, the meddler.

One point one: She’s outfoxed him on this one.

And two: John’s an idiot for going along with it. Why the fuck would he?

“Okay, but. Just because she suggested it doesn’t mean you had to go along with it. And- why would you even ask Jane? Literally, you’re friends with my brother. My blood relative.”

He just looks at you for a second.

“Yes, but since when is Dave helpful about anything ever? I only met you once at like, one of those cooking classes you guys do, and he dragged me to it, and he like-,”

“His apron caught fire,” Dirk says, with dawning realization. “I didn’t know you were there. Well. To be honest, the whole fire thing has erased everything else that happened that morning from my memory.”

“Yeah, I kind of assumed? It’s honestly a little bit of a miracle I remember you. He nearly set _me_ on fire before you guys doused him in water to put it out.”

If Dirk thinks very hard, he can _kind_ of remember John being there. Or at least someone who looked very like him, blue eyes and buck teeth, messy hair. No glasses though, he thinks. Maybe. The fire really had been eventful, and then he’d had to make sure Dave was unhurt afterwards. His brother’s ability to worry him is un-fucking-paralleled.

“So. We met then, sort of. And- what, you found the sight of me flinging a bucket of water on my brother irresistibly sexy?” Dirk asks, raising an eyebrow. “Enough to ask Jane to set me up with you, instead of just asking me out like a normal person?”

“…I didn’t say I knew what I was doing.” At least John seems embarrassed about that. And honestly? Dirk has no fucking room to talk, given that he’s been doing his best to ignore any and every sign of interest (from John, and in John) all evening. Probably best not to say that, though. “I mean, I didn’t think it was a big deal, except then I kept thinking about you. Which, doesn’t really happen. It’s kind of rare for me to be into someone, even interested that way, and, like. Dave kept talking about you afterwards too, because he’s a goblin and can apparently _tell_ these kinds of things, and he’d just bring up what you were doing and how single you were-,” wow. Thanks, bro. “-and that didn’t help, either. But I wasn’t going to ask him for help, either. So, Jane. Which, y’know. Was not my best idea.”

“That’s pretty clear,” he agrees. “But, y’know. I got- caught up, in the insult part of it. And I don’t blame you for not going to Dave. No doubt him and Karkat would’ve embroiled you in a _way_ worse scheme.”

“Yeah. Jane mostly figured something out that would work for her? And, she explained it pretty well, too, even if she didn’t really warn me that you’d go completely fucking batshit over my honest opinion, though. Which, seems kind of rude, given that she put me up to it?”

“She upped her prankster’s gambit on this one for sure. And- listen, dude. I’ve got specific opinions about things, and one of those is that if you don’t fucking like a certain type of food, you have no room to come complain about it when you’re the one who chose to eat it. That being said. I’m- aware. That I came off strong.”

“That’s not, like. A bad thing. I like that you’re passionate. And you’re pretty easy to talk to, when you want to be.” John’s looking over at him, something a lot like hope in his eyes now. Oh, man. Dirk’s so fucked.

“I can hold a conversation, shockingly. You’re not too bad yourself, though. I…enjoyed myself. This evening. Despite everything. It’s been a long time since I spent that much effort planning and making a menu.”

If a real life adult man could do those cartoon star eyes, John Egbert would be doing them right about now.

Hold on. Point three has arrived, with all the subtlety of a brick wall.

“Is this- a date?”

John’s face changes from open and almost adoring to guarded in a split-second, and while Dirk’s witnessed it and hated it several times tonight, this time? He’s going to push.

“It- I mean. Not _really_ ,” Egbert hedges.

“Sorry, bro. None of that ‘if a tree falls and no one is there to hear it’ bullshit. This one’s a simple yes or no, I think.”

“It’s not, thanks,” John says, acerbic now. Defensive. Dirk resists the urge to flinch away and feel like he’s already fucking this up. “I _thought_ it was one, like- why else would you _invite me to dinner that you cooked_? But then I got here and it was a weird rivalry thing, and. I was fine with that, honest, I just thought I’d misread the situation. I didn’t think we’d talk about _any_ of the stuff that we did, when you first opened the door. Or, like. When you asked, too. That’s not first date conversations anyway. But I felt bad not telling you about Jane and I’d have had to anyway.”

Dirk….did definitely invite him to a dinner.

And if Jane’s been telling John that Dirk flirts through sarcasm, insults, and mudslinging-

God. What a mess.

“Okay. Well, based on the context you had, it’s not entirely your fault for thinking it was a date, so let’s get that one out of the way. And, y’know, thanks for coming clean. I’m not pissed at you, I’m pissed at Jane for pulling one over on me this way. And at myself, I fuckin’ _knew_ something was up earlier,” he adds. “But this wasn’t a date.”

John swallows, and nods, and he looks like a man about to go to the gallows. Dirk’s a cruel dude sometimes, he knows this and a whole lot of lobsters can attest to it, but he’s not that cruel. Well. He lets John squirm for a couple of seconds.

“But we’ve already done dinner, so when we go on a real first date, it should involve a movie. We get that cliché out of the way immediately.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Egbert’s face just lights up. Dirk finally crumbles and smiles back. How can he not?

“Yeah- yes. Okay, yes. But I’m picking.”

“You’re definitely not.”

“Wait until my next set where I tell jokes about how a guy asked me out on a date and didn’t even know it.”

“Y’know, there’s something to be said for the old trick of throwing rotten tomatoes at bad comic acts? I’ve got real easy access to those,” Dirk says. He’s still smiling. He probably looks ridiculous. But John’s smiling wider, and no one has to see this, and he’ll deal with Jane later.

“Pfff. I’d like to see you try,” Egbert scoffs.

“You’ll see me succeed.”

And that’s a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ectobaby for setting this event up, and again to flickerfins for the GORGEOUS art for the title!!

**Author's Note:**

> The struggle to not go full Ratatouille and make Hal the rat was so real, let me tell you.


End file.
